


Exposure

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from "Photo Finish."  Hutch is getting fed up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure

Hutch clattered down the steps ahead of Starsky and slid into the Torino, slamming the door with a decisive thunk. In the few minutes they'd been in Dora Pruitt's apartment, the late morning sun had heated the car's leather upholstery until he could feel the burn through his jeans. He flipped the visor down and leaned his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, until he heard the other door shut and felt the seat shift beneath Starsky's weight.

"Why'd you tell her that?" Starsky asked. His expression was one of amusement, curiosity, a touch of irritation. No more than a touch, though. He wasn't taking this seriously.

Hutch didn't open his eyes. "Tell her what?"

Starsky twisted the key in the ignition. "C'mon, you know what." The engine roared to life, and he pulled away from the curb. "You told her I liked to mess around. You think she needed any encouragement? You saw the way she was lookin' at us."

"Starsk, I just thought you'd enjoy a good lasagna dinner, that's all."

Starsky snickered. "She wanted a party, not dinner. Her and both of us and that bottle of champagne. She'd have lost that bathrobe she was barely wearing real quick."

Hutch looked away, out the window. "So what are you bitching about? I just told her the truth."

Starsky glanced at him. "You're mad, aren't you?"

Hutch didn't reply.

"Hey, I told her I was going steady, didn't I?"

Hutch rolled his eyes. " _Going steady_ ," he repeated, sarcasm heavy in his tone. "Why don't we hit the malt shop, Starsk, and after that maybe we can jitterbug at the sock hop and make out in the back seat at Inspiration Point?"

Starsky gave him a narrow-eyed look. "You're in a really pissy mood today."

Hutch widened his eyes innocently. "And for no reason at all, right?"

Starsky shrugged. "Okay, so I like to mess around. So it's the truth. So what?"

"I'm not arguing with you."

They slowed to a stop at a light. "I don't mess around where it counts," Starsky said. He cast a cautious glance at the car next to them and its oblivious passengers before sliding a warm hand up Hutch's thigh and across, until it rested, casually possessive, over his crotch. "You know one of these is all I can handle." He squeezed gently.

Hutch ignored the surge in his genitals and lifted Starsky's hand away. The truth was, Starsky only wanted one of "those." How hard was it not to mess around with guys when you didn't even want to?

Hutch wanted to, sometimes. Not because Starsky didn't get him hot anymore, not because he was bored or restless or disenchanted, or any of the other reasons people usually have for cheating. Certainly not because he didn't love Starsky, or vice versa. But the thought of making a dent in Starsky's complacency, breaking a rule (and whose damn rule was it, anyway? Who said everything was cool as long as they screwed all the women they wanted but stayed strictly away from guys? Where the hell had that come from?) – that in itself turned him on.

He had half a mind to do it right in front of Starsky. Drag him to some gay bar ( _Gee, Starsk, how was I to know? It just looked like a good place to have a drink!_ ) and do some blatant flirting with a member of the prohibited sex. Slow dance a little with the cutest guy in the place (not counting Starsky), disappear into the men's room for an indecent interval, emerge with disheveled clothes and a satisfied smile, watch Starsky boil over.

Maybe hint to some perp, some loser, someone pathetic enough to go for it, that a quick blow job might make things easier for him. God. He could just imagine Starsky's face if he did that.

He shifted in his seat. When had he started having fantasies like this? Fantasies that weren't really sexual, fantasies where the sex itself didn't even matter. Fantasies about hurting Starsky, infuriating Starsky, grabbing Starsky by the throat and yelling, _Look at me! I love you, goddammit! It's not just fun and games anymore!_

He rubbed his face, squinted, pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache from the glare of the sun through the windows. "Where are we going?"

"Marcie's. We gotta check out that picture again, remember? I still think we mighta missed something."

Hutch nodded, absently. Time to get his mind back on track, back on the case. They had a murderer to catch.

But he was going to do it. Sooner or later, one way or the other, he was going to shake things up. He was thirty-five years old, goddammit. He couldn't go on this way.

He glanced at Starsky's profile, the long lashes, the strong jaw already showing a hint of stubble and it wasn't even noon yet. The soft curls moving in the breeze from the lowered window. The thin lips that kissed so perfectly.

Starsky must have felt Hutch's eyes on him. He turned his head and smiled, an open, oblivious, _Beautiful day, ain't it?_ smile.

Hutch sighed, and closed his eyes against the sun.


End file.
